Colors of the Week
by Avelona-and-Sally
Summary: Jin could always count on Mugen to know the days of the week. This frightened him, because any knowledge Mugen had was no-doubt related to illicit something-or-other, and something like a calendar was full of dirty loopholes. Fuugen. Lots of lime.


A/N: Pointless fanservice… Don't expect anything good here, just lots of kissing.

…

…

_Sunday – Light Blue_

_Yes,_ she _knew_ what he meant when he said that, _no,_ she _wasn't_ oblivious and _no,_ she was _not_ up for it.

Sundays were lazy, curl-up-on-the-couch-and-read days that were meant for relaxing, eating chocolates, taking baths and lounging uselessly about the house in sweats. Had it not been for Mugen's obsession with her breasts – first thing that came off was the shirt. Always. (Oddly enough, though, the bra stayed on nearly 'till the end.) - she would have gone bra-less on Sunday, but _something _needed to cover the skin on that part of her body. But Mugen refused to believe that she wasn't in the mood and made kinky remarks the entire day.

She sighed from across the room at him and threw the socks she was folding down into the basket, _"What?"_

"You look hot," he smirked.

She was wearing a baggy T-shirt and sweats (and, as he's probably aware, her baby-blue, wire-less, ultra-comfort, extra-padding, forty-dollar lingerie). Unlikely. She pursed her lips, "It's not going to work."

"Hey, it was just a compliment," his smirk widened, "Though I guess I can't blame you – if you're around me all day, what else could you be thinking of?"

She huffed and picked up the socks again, folding and piling them into their respective places, refusing to look at him. A grand total of four seconds later, her ass was grabbed. Honestly, she had been expecting it. But she still jumped.

The basket tipped over.

She glared at it. Then at him. Then at it. Then at him.

He kissed her. Her eyes shut, cheeks warming and hands sliding under the T-shirt he was wearing to feel the muscles underneath. She felt the rumble of his chuckle under her hands and immediately broke the kiss, glaring at him for messing with her idea of a Sunday. There was to be no making out. None. Only laziness. _No Sunday activities should ever count as workouts._ His smile turned kind at her petulant expression, though his eyes were still laughing at her.

He scooped her up, pushing the discarded basket out of the way as he walked slowly to the bedroom, tension building.

"If you're so insistent on doing nothing, I can try out some stuff that - "

"_No."_

He laughed as he closed the door, and, involuntarily, she giggled.

_Monday – Pink_

He liked to bug her, snap the exposed straps of her fuschia-pink bra and tug on her ponytail even though he _knew_ it was a Monday – goddammit, she _hated_ that word! – and that nothing would be tolerated. Nothing would be forgiven. The world would tremble at the Rage of Fuu, and he – he who _dared_ to tease and whisper naughty things into her ear and nibble her arm while she was doing _work - _would suffer for his _audaucity._

But the bastard did not tremble at her glare (as everyone should). Nor did he suffer, really, and it seemed that his teasing _was_ tolerated. After all, she _was_ looking forward to the Monday-night pick-me-up - despite scowling as angrily as she could - and there was no time - or discipline to get back to cutting and pasting, she knew he'd instigate a make-out session – to lecture the walking headache.

So she went online, found the menu-item photo, copied, returned to the original document, pasted, and adjusted the size without commenting.

She did _not_ squeak when he pinched her.

It did _not_ turn her on.

She did _not_ feel regret when he walked out of the room at her cold shoulder.

She did _not_ get up, follow him, and begin what had been the reason for ignoring him.

She _did_ get enough sleep. She _**did.**_

She _wasn't_ embarrassed in the morning – there was nothing to _be_ embarrassed about.

She _wasn't_ tired at work the next day.

And she _didn't_ blush when he removed her bra with a deep chuckle and a "You always wear this one on Mondays…"

Because she _didn't_ fool around before she finished her work. She _never_ did. _**Ever.**_

...Nor did she trip and fall constantly. She was far too graceful for that.

_Tuesday – Yellow_

There was a stain on one of the straps of her yellow bra.

But it was her only yellow bra, and there were very few yellow bras in the market due to a slight hatred of the color by teenagers, and that age-range was really the only size that suited her, so she didn't throw it out. It represented too much, too – it represented the happy attitude taken up in anticipation of the rest of the week now that Monday was over, and the sunny personality that she found she could muster up, given the right amount of food. And that yellow underwear was a reminder of another thing. The frequent cause of the happy personality that made Tuesdays so appealing.

Ice cream.

There was a new flavor every-other week, because Fuu really liked trying new ones. (Mugen found one, decided he liked it well enough and stuck to it – he found weird flavors too distracting.) Now, Mugen wasn't to know that she found the activity aligned with eating ice cream more enjoyable than the food itself – his head would get too big to fit into their apartment; let him call her a pig when her relationship and eagerness concerning food was brought up, the mere thought of the alternative granted her a headache to foreshadow the annoyance that was being contemplated – all he was to know was she found it doubly pleasurable – even though it was only about one-point-seven-five times the original feeling…maybe one-point-nine-five (especially when the ice cream had chocolate in it).

Mugen had been surprised when she suggested it, but didn't object (he proceeded to grin like an idiot and nod faster than was humanely possible when she'd said she wasn't opposed to the idea) and actually offered to purchase the dessert each time…so long as she didn't demand that they get that gourmet 'crap'. She'd blushed when he'd called her kinky, and he'd laughed when she blushed, and she'd tugged on his hair when he laughed, and he'd growled and bitten her shoulder, and she'd gotten flustered and put her elbow in her ketchup, and he'd laughed at her again while she stood, shirtless, in the kitchen, wearing only the yellow bra and yoga pants, trying to scrub the white garment so that it didn't stain.

So, maybe ice cream wasn't the actual cause of the cheery mood she adopted each Tuesday, and maybe she would've been happy with any food, or even no food at all, but habits were what built character, and without character, what could she fall back on, right?

Fuu sighed, running a finger over the slightly brown spot on the lingerie, giving her reflection an exasperated look.

"Hey," Mugen purred into her ear, pulling her against him from behind and resting his scratchy, unshaven chin on the sensitive curve of her shoulder, "If it bothers you that much, just take the damn thing off."

Biting back a snigger, she complied.

_Wednesday – Orange_

"Happy Hump Day!"

"_Mugen!_ You're so gross! Can't you be a little more _smooth?"_

"'Hump Day' means 'Wednesday.' 'Ts not _my_ fault you've got such a dirty mind."

"…"

"…And I shaved, too!"

"Why would you call _Wednesday_ 'Hump Day'?"

"'Cause it's in the middle of the week. Like how you climb a hill and once you get halfway, you start goin' down again."

"You don't start going downhill once you get halfway. You start going down once you get to the _top._ After you're _done climbing."_

"…"

"So, _Saturday_ should be 'Hump Day'."

"I'll screw you any day of the week, babe."

"You know how I meant it, perv! And _you just said there was no double meaning!"_

"I didn't say that, _I_ said you had a dirty mind..."

"…Just let me finish this."

"What is it?"

"List of recommended names for the new pastry we're trying out."

"Lemme see.

"…What the fuck? Why're these so _lame?_ No-one's gonna buy anything if it's called 'Fairy Mound.'"

"_You_ do better!"

"…What's it made of?"

"Citrus fruit."

"…What?"

"_Oranges!"_

"Okay, sheesh, what crawled up your ass?"

"Hm, maybe it's because some asshole walked in and started talking about humping hills."

"…"

"…"

"…I like orange."

"What?"

"Like the color of the bra you're wearing."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Wanna make out?"

"…Yeah, okay."

_Thursday – Purple_

She sucked in her breath as his eager hands yanked her shirt open hastily, pushing her down onto the couch and his mouth attacking hers frantically.

Movie nights always ended so well.

She weaved her hands into his hair, tongue battling with his for dominance, tasting butter popcorn and spicy potato chips. He inhaled sharply through his nose when her hand went low to tease the drawstring of his pants and he cupped her breast, mouth leaving hers to tease the skin of her collar.

"_Fuck,_ you taste good," he said, tongue flicking out to moisten the raw flesh beneath her violet bra strap.

She couldn't take a deep enough breath to reply, but figured he understood, as his gaze had taken on a more intense quality when their eyes met and he kissed her forcefully again. His hands messed with the buttons on her jeans for about a minute before he lost patience, and she moved him off her with a kiss so that she could take care of the problem herself. As soon as they were unzipped, the offending things were removed and thrown impatiently to some corner of the room.

Again, his eyes met hers, burning like they'd been crafted in Hell itself, and he brought his head down to kiss the milky expanse of her stomach, snaking his way up with a trail of kisses until their mouths met again and she felt like singing. His fingers tangled in her loose hair and he pulled gently, enough to make her arch into him and rake her nails down his back in retaliation.

He hissed a curse word and bit her hard, sucking on the area with intentions of leaving a hickey that could be seen by anyone dumb enough to look down into her cleavage, and continued to leave a trail of similar marks down to her stomach, "You're fucking _mine,_ ya got that?" Of course she did, she thought, gasping out an agreement.

The living room floor hadn't ever been so comfortable before, but now, as she stared at the ceiling, gasping whenever he did what only _he_ could do, she found that the carpet was, indeed, soft, and the ceiling was very attractive – especially when it was the background to his face during sex – in spite of all the infuriating paint lumps that pissed her off beyond belief.

There was release and she gasped his name, pulling him down to her by his hair so their lips could meet, repeating it like a mantra, _"Mugen, Mugen, Mugen…"_

In the afterglow, he lay on top of her, twirling a strand of her hair around his finger and occasionally kissing her flesh. "Fuu," he purred every once in a while, smirking smugly into her blissful face, daring her to say it was anything short of spectacular. And she would hold him close, murmuring things like "That was amazing," and, once, "I love you."

He let out a lion-like yawn and buried his face in her chest, "Fuck. That tired me out."

"Mmm," she glanced around, "Oh, God."

"What?"

She glared at him, "My jeans landed in the popcorn bowl."

"First one ta' wake up has ta' clean it."

Well, she wasn't about to argue.

_Friday – Red_

Thank all that was holy for the creation of weekends.

Fuu sang a tune-less song, hopping up the stairs like a child, overbalancing once in a while in her feet-killing shoes and having to grip the railing to stay standing. She and Mugen lived on the fourth floor, which royally sucked because waitressing meant she was on her feet all the time, and her height required that she wear heels so she wasn't shorter than the – seated! – customers she was serving.

Breathing out in relief and perspiring slightly from her unorthodox way of climbing the stairs, she turned the key in the lock and entered her home. Immediately, she was assaulted with a collection of _delicious_ smells all coming from the living room. Following the scents, she discovered an arrangement of take-out boxes, some opened, others untouched, laid out on the floor in preparation for dinner.

The sound of a door opening and footsteps told her that Mugen had just left the bathroom and was making his way to her. She turned, blushing at his towel-clad figure, "You got it yourself?"

"We've been doin' it long enough. I know what you like to shovel down, piggy," he smirked.

She smacked his head lightly but smiled in gratitude all the same, touching her lips to his and going back to the entrance hall to remove her heels and coat. After she'd changed into more comfortable clothes, the two of them sat down together and ate while watching re-runs, him making bawdy comments and her reprimanding him, but only half-meaning it.

Eventually she dozed off, head falling onto his shoulder, barely even aware of his arms, awkwardly encircling her middle. She woke up in their bed, wearing only panties and Friday's bra, nestled comfortably against Mugen.

"…Did we…?"

"Naw," he replied, "You passed out. Would'a taken that thing off'a you, too, but I didn't want ya ta think I raped you." He said with a sleepy shrug, "'Sides…I like you in red."

She smiled and pressed a kiss to his stubbly cheek, "I trust you."

_Saturday – Black_

Clubbing with Mugen was like pulling her string of patience tight and allowing a herd of elephants to try their hand a tightrope-walking from one side of her mind to the next. He stared at every near-attractive female that walked by and groped every part of her that he could reach while they were on the dance floor. Not to mention his obsession with emptying the bar and leaving her to pick up the tab.

The one good thing that came out of it was that she was guaranteed safety throughout the night in its entirety because no matter how drunk he got, he could still beat anyone in a fight (which meant that she was never dragged off into some dodgy corner where she was drugged senseless and pulled into a closet, as he would certainly beat the crap out of anyone who attempted to do so).

"'Ey, babe," he breathed, nearly hanging off her (though he _insisted_ that he merely hand his arm around her shoulders) "D'you wanna go home, get _drunk…_" he trailed off with a very creepy suggestive leer, face

"You've already got that last one covered," she said, wrinkling her nose at his booze-breath, "But, yeah, let's go home." He cheered loud enough to cause several heads to turn in spite of the pounding music, and she blushed. "Come on, you damn idiot," she said, pulling him by his arm to the entrance, "You've done enough damage to our rent check for the night."

"Wait – no more booze?" he yelled, attracting more attention.

"_There's-booze-at-home-so-let's-just-leave!"_ she hissed angrily, practically spitting in his face and pulling him out with as much force as she could manage, being unrealistically clumsy and with him being abnormally strong, even when drunk.

"Mmm'kay," he slurred, "Don't get your panties in a bunch."

"Do yourself a favor," she ground out, "Shut. Up. Or you will not be getting laid for the rest of the week." With a wave and as powerful a whistle as she could manage, she hailed a cab and pushed him in.

"Big fuckin' deal," he whispered, nuzzling her neck in a sleepy manner, "Today's the last day."

"You're completely wasted, and you still know what day it is," she marveled.

"Yeah," he breathed, "You're wearing the black one."

Fuu blushed and fingered the bra strap that was visible due to her clingy tank top.

"Trust you to use something like this as a calendar."

[-M-]

"What day is it?" Shino asked, placing the soup spoon delicately into her mouth and savoring the taste of broccoli and cheese.

Mugen glanced at Fuu who was serving a table of girls watched her adjust a violet lingerie strap, "Thursday."

Jin's stare bore into the uncouth man's face. A muscle in his jaw twitched. There was something wrong here. He knew it. But he sincerely hoped he would remain ignorant.

…

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A/N: OOC? Bad writing? Heh, yes. But you should review anyway, if only to tell me how awful it was. Heheh.


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